One of My Favorite Christmas Poems

Journey of the Magi
T.S. Eliot

A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.
And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty, and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.

Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.

All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we lead all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I have seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.

Status Collage

Comforting

When your family is in Arizona because your brother and his wife and two little girls are moving, and you're at home alone, at the foothill of the mountain with a snow-packed and -drifted lane, your lungs rigid with bronchitis, it's super nice to get a call at 10 PM from your aunt next door, letting you know that she and her husband, your dad's youngest brother, will be over in an instant, ready to drive you to the doctor or the ER or just bring you soup, if you think you need it.

It's good to know you can count on family.  Thanks, Nancy.

Sound Mind

The more I live the life of music the more I am convinced that it is the freely imaginative mind that is at the core of all vital music making…An imaginative mind is essential to the creation of art in any medium, but it is even more essential in music precisely because it is the freest, the most abstract, the least fettered of all the arts.  --Aaron Copland

Sometimes,

when my brain is littered
     with pieces of Bach's Well-Tempered Clavier,
     heaps of String Quartets,
Shostakovich Symphonies, Rachmaninov Etudes
and Requiems;

when my mind begins
to lounge amidst
     the supple sexiness of Melody Gardot's ballads and songs--
          the verve with which
          The Paris Combo spins a joking scale--
the poignant throb inside
an Orpheus and Euridice--
      it's all I can do to remain
           sanely, confidently
                                   connected to the balance of a world outside myself.
So much sound sings and I am possessed.

Inexplicably, I turn
inward
     and listen,
beguiled by the musics of other men.

It is an ecstasy,
becoming lost and not lost among
the antecedents and their consequents
     (these: the questions worked out and answered by Chopin and Chicago and Sinatra),
 and I find peace.

But I am afraid, too,
when my sound mind is seduced--
I remember Beethoven
muttering and humming his symphonies to himself, hair-wild and stammering on a street.

outside
     apart
          alone

An apostle or an amusement:
     a crazy man people quickly pass.

Things That Just Fit

• an old pair of perfect jeans
• a quiet corner of the library
• chai tea after a blizzard
• mom's arms
• neruda
• movies at midnight
• merry-go-rounds
• english toffee on Christmas eve
• A 440

and...

 

...we're playing together again!!!

All You Need is Love (and, Perhaps, a Laugh or Two)

I drove home last week to have lunch with my cute mom and dad.  After discussing our common ground and diverging thoughts on Boyd K. Packer's talk, I smiled at my parents and teased, "Well just look at our little Mormon modern family: you've got a son who's gay, a son who's married to a non-member, a son who's currently being pursued by (gasp) a fabulous black girl, and a son who'd travel back in time to 1890 just so he could farm and earn a living at it.  Who would've thought?"

We shared a laugh, and then my mom said, "Yeah.  Not quite what we pictured, but it's what we've got.  And we love each of you, no matter what."

No, life doesn't always comply with the picture you paint in your head.  I'm quite certain my parents envisioned a completely different outcome when they first embarked on the process of rearing a family.  But, being the beautiful people they are, they've adjusted their vision, walked forward in faith and shown us that love is really all you need. 

On "Notes from 'Cole'"

I recently found a diamond engagement ring and wedding band I purchased three years ago for a young lady I intended to marry.  Needless to say, we didn't end up married.  Finding that ring (an realizing that I'd allowed myself to lose such a beautifully set, expensive stone in the first place) brought up many emotions I thought I'd left behind.

I've written a series of posts on finding that ring, and what it has represented at different points in my life for the past three years.  In the past, I've had heartburn over publishing posts describing my feelings and experiences as a gay Mormon.  Now, I'm not one who believes in justifying one's feelings (actions, however, should bear accountability), but I don't like to cause others discomfort.  I've debated about publishing these posts (and others on faith vs. nature, personal history, and shifting belief systems) on this particular blog: some posts are are composed as an I'm-writing-to-examine-and-understand-this-thing-in-my-life, and could be controversial or too "diary" driven.  I haven't wanted to make certain readers uncomfortable or uneasy about what they'll find when (and if) they read flowers.

So, while I do write about things I've learned while trying to balance a life in the Church and as a gay man, I don't believe flowers isn't the place for that.  I will be exploring those sorts of issues at another blog, Notes from "Cole".  Head on over there if y'all are interested.

On Children

Now, I know I can't take responsibility for having taken part in creating these two precious girls, nor do I lay parental claim on their upbringing, but I love them.

This quote from Brian Andreas sums up the realization I came to while my nieces were here (one of them twice!) in September--

There are lives I can imagine without children but none of them have the same laughter & noise.

Revelations before a Disastrous Marriage

I.
She is in the kitchen,
slicing cheese to melt over
white bread.  A few minutes later,
she sits with you on the couch, watching
the opening scene of something starring Julia
Roberts.  Two pieces of bread, topped with bubbling
cheese, crowd a small plate she puts in her lap.  You reach
over to take the piece you think is yours.  She slaps your hand
away.  “I didn’t make these for you,” she says.
                                                                             You get up to floss your teeth.

You are not too surprised when you think to yourself, Selfish bitch.


II.
The tongue,

     alarmed at how
     this small space it felt spreading
     between a tooth and gum
     came to be,

cannot quit curling up into
your lip
to touch that sweet sting of
cavity.


III.
You are both at a party.  She flaunts the ring you bought for her
until she sees you trying to ignore the drunk boy who is trying to
flirt with you.  Later, she sits in your car, asking you the question
you won’t ask yourself.  She reaches for your hand, because it’s
what she thinks you want.  You both cry, trying to curl up into the
space spreading out and in between you.

Some of My Favorite Things, All in One

J.M Barrie's Peter Pan + Hook + excellent music + fabulous remix = Pogomix's "Bangarang"

Some Words and a Poem

I couldn't find sleep last night.  I was up when I heard my dad upstairs, readying himself for work at about 5:15.  I went up to the kitchen, said good morning to him and drank a glass of water.  He works so hard, I thought to myself.  I wonder if the responsibility of caring and providing for our family is a burden he still is constantly aware of.

I went back downstairs, thinking of how much I love him and how much he loves me.  Sometimes, when he's feeling gruff and doesn't say "I love you" he tells us--his boys--that he's proud of us.  Reminded me of this poem.

first poem for Dad 

And straightway coming up out 
of the water, he saw the heavens 
opened, and the Spirit like a dove 
descending upon him: 
And there came a voice from 
heaven, saying: Thou art my belov- 
ed Son, in whom I am well pleased. 

    —St. Mark 1:10-11

Doubting your frequent compliments,

I’ve locked myself behind the bathroom door

To inspect my thin-skinned bones,

Hoping that the image in a mirror

Will help me square up why

You give such lovely praise to me

On this solvent-scented Saturday

Reserved for scrubbing toilets.

Falling lights and descending doves don’t offer

Clues to help me see your view:

“I’m proud of you, my son.”

I should trust you—your wisdom has always been

Constant truth as white as porcelain—

    You don’t give me lies.

July 28th Program

Weber State University

Department of Performing Arts 

Presents

Nicholas Maughan, Pianist

In Solo Recital

Wednesday, July 28, 2010 7:30 PM

Garrison Choral Room (BC 136)

Val A Browning Center for the Performing Arts 

(1901 University Circle
Ogden, Utah 84408) 

PROGRAM NOTES

Ludwig van Beethoven:     Sonata in Ab Major, Op. 110 

     i. Moderato cantabile molto espressivo

 Beethoven's final three Piano Sonatas (Opp. 109, 110 and 111) are sometimes performed as a complete set.  This is easily understood, realizing these are the final works he ever created for solo piano.  We discover within these pieces Beethoven's most intimate, inward relationship with sound and form, and--when one considers the works were composed after Beethoven had completely lost his hearing--how Beethoven's music really became a vehicle for his deepest expression.

I've chosen to open this evening's program with the first movement of Op. 110.  For me, it's the musical brother of Kafke's words:  "No people sing with such pure voices as those who [have] live[d] in deepest hell; what we take for the song of angels is their song."

 A man acquainted with ill health, I imagine the finality Beethoven's hearing loss created his "deepest hell."  He was, after all, a man of music, his soul in his ear.  And yet, in spite of the crisis, he continued to sing.  Opus 110 is a testament and a hymn, its reverent opening chords opening up to show that life, even when filled with silent adversity, can still reveal ripples and peals of joy.

JS Bach:     Prelude and Fugue in F# Minor, BWV 859

Bach's collection of 48 Preludes and Fugues, The Well-Tempered Clavier (Books I & II), is probably as revered in the pianist's musical literature as the Bible is in Christianity's canon of sacred texts.  Each of the Preludes and Fugues creates its own sound world and presents unique technical and artistic challenges, and Bach himself wrote the pieces were written "for the profit and use of musical youth desirous of learning, and especially for the pastime of those already skilled in this study."

I selected this Prelude and Fugue in F# Minor from Book I because I found the  characters of the Prelude and the Fugue make quite an intriguing philosophical contrast.  The Prelude exhibits Bach's love of the dance.  It's lithe and fleet-footed, 16th notes almost tipping over themselves in their rushing descents.  The Fugue, however, is a study in distressed resistance (the main subject) and calming assurance (the countersubject).  I also love the fact that this is a work written in a minor key, but the last chord finds a major resolution.  There's nothing as fulfilling as a lovingly-placed Piccardy third!

 Arno Babadjanian: Poem (1966)

I first became acquainted with this work when Tria Fata was competing with Badajdanian's expertly crafted Piano Trio.  I was YouTube-ing Babadjanian's other works, saw the title Poem, and thought to myself, Well, with a title like that, this should be a pretty, lyrical piece. Let's give it a listen.  Needless to say, I was quite shocked and thrilled when my expectations were shattered.

 After an explosive introduction, the work travels through three parts: the first presents an undulating ostinato which accompanies a long soprano line fitted with little Armenian inflections and turns; the second is a kind of nervous toccata-rondo, full of schizophrenic leaps and manic hand-crossings; and the final section repeats material from the introduction, ending in a cataclysmic bacchanale of sound, engaging the widest ranges of the keyboard.

 Sergei Rachmaninoff: Etude-Tableau in C Minor, Op. 33, No. 3

C minor is traditionally one of the darkest, most fate-filled musical keys.  Beethoven's Fifth Symphony and his ultimate Piano Sonata (Op. 111) were written in C Minor.  Rachmaninoff's initial treatment of the key is especially brooding and dark.  Thick chords and murky harmonies create an oppressive, seemingly endless heaviness.  To me, it almost feels like Rachmaninoff is contemplating his death.   But there is hope.  The tonal center of the piece shifts, light descends and, again, as I've mentioned with regard to the Beethoven's 110, we think we hear the angels sing.

This special piece is a fascinating study in the emotions and pictures harmony can inspire and suggest.  It's an essay in chiaroscuro, the strong contrast between dark and light, night and day and death and life.

Sergei Rachmaninoff/Sergei Rachmaninoff: Daisies, Op. 38, No. 3

This lovely piano transcription was originally part of Rachmaninoff's 6 Romances, Op. 38, a set of expertly crafted art songs for soprano and piano.  "Daisies," the third song in the set, revels in the delicacy of the white-petaled flower.

One of the few pieces Rachmaninoff wrote in consistently major harmonies, it demonstrates his affinity for refined counterpoint, his sweeping, lyrical lines and his expert artistry in manipulating pianistic (and vocal) color, all within three pages of music.  Although it is a miniature, it is a work of supreme, elegant beauty.  As the last line of the proclaims, "Oh, daisies! I love you so!"

 Frederic Chopin: Polonaise-Fantaisie in Ab, Op. 61

The polonaise is one of the most important of Poland's national dances.  At times heroic, chivalric, and even defiant, Chopin used his 16 polonaises to express the intense national pride he felt as a Pole, though living in France.

The Polonaise-Fantaisie, however, takes a less militant approach in telling its musical story.  It's his last large work, written three years before his death in 1849, and for me, even though he pays homage to the dotted rhythms of his beloved polonaise, there's a greater sense of distance, of immense space (pay attention to places where he employs silence), and of longing for the beautiful place one calls Home than we hear in many of his other works. I tend to think this is Chopin's meditation on mortality and the possibility of immortality.  The work presents a rich and complicated emotional image, its culmination more of a question mark than an exclamation.

Tonight, Tonight! :/

I rarely get up anymore before 8:30 in the morning.  I'm a pretty late night owl, usually practicing in one of the practice rooms at school until midnight or later, preparing for this or that performance or gig or Tria date.  This morning, however, found me waking at 6 am on my parents' couches, my nerves already tightening themselves in preparation for tonight's solo recital.

That's right, I'm performing this evening.  Alone.  As in without anyone else on stage.  I haven't played a solo gig in two years.  I'm a little nervous.

I have, of course, been playing parts of the program at different functions for which I've been hired.  Birthday parties for important university doners. My professor has been so gracious in meeting me for weekly lessons, during which time we discuss the best way to play technical passages and my philosophy about each piece.  Good friends have been patient and listened to entire runs of the program.  I shouldn't be nervous: I'm quite prepared.

I guess the reason behind the nerves is the uncertainty that I can pull off a solo recital as well as Sam, Katie and I can pull off a chamber music concert, or as well as a recital in which I'm collaborating with a vocalist or other instrumentalist.  I'm fighting doubt, trying to remember that I've done my best, and grace, thankfully, should settle in and do the rest.

The instrument upon which I'll play is a perfect 9-foot Steinway Model D, it's range of color and tone an impeccable palette with with to create musical pictures.  The hall is not bad, and it's one with which I'm well acquainted.  My teacher will be there, offering up words of support in the green room before, and my parents and friends will be rooting for my success.  I'm playing magnificent pieces of music which run the gamut of musical expression.

It will be a fine evening.  I will trust the Inspirer of all good things and let the music ring.

On Bodies (cont.)

It's been a long time I've been in this body, with all its idiosyncratic intricacies. I've accepted the fact my immune system is weak, that my metabolic rate is exceptionally high and that my muscles will probably never get me a job as an underwear model (but I can still admire those kinds of boys, can't I?). I've finally learned how to eat healthily, how to sleep regularly and how to listen to my body's rhythms and keep myself from overrunning it with too much business. I've finally learned how to dress myself myself and take pride in the way I keep myself preened and coiffed.

Really, my body isn't all as awful as I sometimes make it out to be. I'm always fascinated at how quickly my blood coagulates after slicing my thumb when peeling potatoes for Sunday dinner; at how the wound heals and becomes a scar, a seam of flesh, raised and stronger than before. I revel in the glory of sight and sound and touch and taste and smell. I've always recovered from tough bouts of illness, maybe not totally unscathed, but still, my white blood cells always seem to win out over the onslaught of virus and bacteria. I survived childhood without a broken bone, but I believe my bones would have healed themselves, too, had the need presented itself.

Bodies are a wonder. Even mine.

It took a funeral to remind me: I'll be happy to keep it as long as I can.

On Bodies

My dad recently spoke at the funeral of a man who was his cousin and best friend growing up.  The man miraculously survived a terrible motorcycle accident a little over a month ago.  He wasn't wearing a helmet and received some pretty traumatic head wounds.  I believe he was in the ICU for a few days, followed by a convalescence at home.  His recovery was going well: he had been in his home for about three weeks or so, doing fine by all accounts.  It was quite a shock when he did die.  Dad had a difficult time.

This man's funeral, as with all other funerals I've had close experience with, gave me the opportunity to be still and take time to think about some meaningful things.  I've thought a lot about bodies.  What a magnificent clutch of parts: the blood, the bone, the curve of breath and vertabrae and flesh; the nerves and effortless signals of sensation; the brilliance and the banality of thought and thinking.  Bodies are a wonder when you really think about them; I can understand why people call them temples.

That being said, I've had a difficult time understanding and enjoying my own body.  I was always that underweight, asthma-and-allergy-prone, sickly-looking kid, often suffering from this bout of bronchitis, that extended case of pneumonia or the flu, sneezing anytime the pollen count was above zero.  I remember spending many winter days cooped up (or "crouped up", as it were) inside, wearing tents of blankets and handfuls of Vicks Vap-o-Rub, wishing I were out in the snowbanks with my younger brothers and the cousins who lived next door.  I hated the fact that, although I loved camping with my family, I could never breathe through my nose when we spent weekends in the mountains.  I desperately wanted to enjoy horses (which were, of course, my favorite animals EVER!!) and other barnyard animals, but the one time I did saddle up, my lungs closed up and I couldn't breathe for two days.  Thank heaven I could at least spend some limited time with the cats and dogs we kept as pets, only resulting in enflamed mucous membranes and itchy, watery eyes.  Allergies were the bane of my childhood.  I even became allergic to the shots a pediatrician prescribed!

Things got a bit better after puberty.  I'm not sure if my body actually outgrew my sickly symptoms, or if I just had gotten used to managing them.  I still carried an inhaler with me pretty much everywhere I went.  My friends will tell you otherwise, and lead you to believe that I often forgot said inhaler and had to leave weekend card-and-popcorn parties to drive home and get it.  I still took a daily anti-histamine to battle against post-nasal drip.  I still loved horses, but had learned to admire them from a distance.

And, as it happened, I was still quite underweight.  I had a pretty hard time watching my young 16- to 18-year old peers, crowing about how much they were working out, comparing the size of their biceps and their calves with each other.  I was a skinny kid and just wasn't a part of the sweaty weight-room scene.  It was upsetting enough that I remember talking with my mom about it.  "Oh, honey," she said, "You just haven't reached your physical peak as quickly as they have.  You just watch and see: in ten years, you'll be the desirable one, and they'll be growing bellies and back hair."  We giggled at the thought, but I admit, I wasn't exactly convinced at Mom's logic.

Serving a mission didn't help with the feelings of frustration in regard to my health or my body image.  I became very ill and was sent home to undergo a a battery of tests to see why I had lost 10% of my total weight in a matter of weeks.  After months of Western medicine's tactics failed, I began to search out alternative means of diagnosis and healing.  Let's just say it was all, quite literally, a crap-shoot!

End Part I

Music Lesson (A Quick Rant/Addendum to the Last Post)

I'm always blown away by the epiphanies my love of music allows. As previously mentioned in the blog, I've been playing with a couple of trio mates, and working with them has taught me so much. Also as mentioned, I've been doing some studious work on a piece that Sam and I will most likely be playing this year.

Over the past couple of days, I've thought frequently about chamber music as a lesson in diversity and acceptance. The artfulness of chamber music is that it creates a relationship between two or more very diverse instruments (in this case the cello--an incredibly expressive, lyrical instrument--and a piano--which, in comparison--is an exceptionally clunky and percussive musical tool), bringing all the different sounds and tambres and instrumental designs--as well as the personalities of the musicians themselves--together to create a beautiful whole. The best composers and chamber musicians know when to highlight each instrument's positive qualities in a soloistic line, when to create pairings or groupings of instruments, creating a sort of musical dialogue or history, or when to involve all the players to really send the music message of togetherness home.

Let's look at my last post's musical selection, the Andante Movement from Rachmaninov's Cello Sonata in G minor, Op. 19.

The piano introduces the initial musical material in an eight bar phrase. Accompinamental 16th notes weave in and out of major and minor tonalities, hinting at the kind of longing and reprieve we'll hear throughout the work. The melody is perfectly Rachmaninovian: repeated Bb's descend a fifth and return to themselves in a kind of humble invocation or request. It's a tender 8-bar introduction, a voyage into the world the cello will sing about in measure 9. I find it so fascinating that the piano doesn't finish the musical thought before the cello comes in to take it up, note for note. The two different musical personalities are speaking the same words, layering their voices on top of each other (0:55-1:27 in the youtube clip).

The trick is to make the cello and the piano sound similar.  Each of the musicians have to be so conscious of the sounds they can create on their instrument, as well as their partner's instrument, in order to create the one long line of melody Rachmaninov composed.  You really have to converse, actually talk about the sound world you both want to create together, and then experiment until you get as close to the ideal sound as you both can.  It takes a lot of patience, a lot of humility, and so much love to make even four bars of music beautiful and meaningful.

And then, there are times when you have to understand the differences between your instruments, and love the fact that different from is not inferior to.  Looking at these measures (31-36) illuminates the idea a little bit better.

The cello part is full of rippling triplets written in direct conflict with the piano' right hand eighth-note octave and 16th note left hand arpeggiations.  Each line creates a different sound and feeling, none in harmony with any other.  It's not a really conflict, but the parts aren't really working together.  It's like the piece is growing up.

We do find some resolution.  The initial musical theme returns in the piano in m. 41, in octaves, the cello playing a wavering triplet figure underneath.  The two instruments switch musical material at m. 49.  It's like they're speaking each other's words again, but with more understanding.  I don't know to explain it, but it's matured and it's beautiful.

It's the idea of "We are completely different instruments, we've gone on a journey, and now we can say the same thing and say it together."

Also, as my best friend has written, with regard to his musical experiences, "You take in as much as you put out. You take and you share. You make and partake. And you do all of this simultaneously."

I love chamber music.  It keeps my life full and harmonious.

Achievement!

I spent four hours yesterday day learning Rachmaninov's Cello Sonata, Op. 19.  Sam and I will play it, along with some Arvo Part and a Beethoven Sonata, this upcoming year.

A year ago, I wouldn't have been able to learn a big piece like this in a day.  Granted, it's not perfected, but I did a fine job of analyzing the structure; how the cello and piano parts complement and interact with each other, thanks to some amazing Rachmaninovian counterpoint; figuring out a great fingering and begin to realize a successful musical interpretation.  It felt so good to look back on the day and realize, that within a month, I'll be playing this (the most gorgeous third movement ever!) with my favorite cellist in the world.

And Yet Another Poem (in Honor of the Parades in July)

PARADE CANDY FLUNG BY GIRLS IN PRETTY DRESSES

children dart like fish,
grabbing at those sweet kissings
of summer color.

thirteen-year-old boys
shuffle uncomfortably
and watch waving girls.

boys: too old to chase
a piece of roadside candy,
too young for kissing,

but desiring both.
they kick at stones in the street.

Another Poem

ISAAC BEFORE THE ALTAR
(Abraham 1:12-15; Genesis 22)

My father bends his head toward the dust
And begs his God there be some other way
To prove his faith and loyalty
     Than place his son upon a pyre.

He thinks how he’d been dragged upon a slab
To slake the thirsty gods of Elkenah—
How fear lay coiled round his beating heart
     Like Pharaoh’s hissing snakes beside some mouse

When priestly knives were pressed against his flesh.
He feels my gaze as he collects the tools—
His ropes, knives, his altarcloths and robes—
     Then he passes by the nursing ewes.

We gather branches for the searing flame,
This kindling for my sacrificial bed;
He bundles twigs to sweep away the doubt
    That God could claim such costly price as I.

We set forth to climb a rocky way,
Both knowing it will be my blood we’ll spill.
My shallow faith is not yet deep as his!—
    Yet he weeps to hear me plead, “Where is the lamb?”

A Poem

PARASITES

Know ye not that ye are the
Temple of God, and that the Spirit
Of God dwelleth in you?
    —1 Cor. 3:16

Don’t preach to me of temples, Paul!

I know
the rites
of silent men, white-robed and stethescoped—

these zealous men who poke and prod

who seek to find a tiny God
which dwells within and feasts upon a sacrament:
my feeble flesh and blood.

I've sent them on a pilgrimage
to prove a microbe thieves my life from me;
they bend low,
fix their needles in my modest joints,
and softly cite Hippocrates.

They return,
tested,
ill at ease to post results as blank
as idols’ stares.

I lick my teeth and think
that if my paling body is
the sacred house which cloaks a godly germ,
then let all temples—like my own—

be rot

to show
that higher gods
will sate themselves

on men who’ll bow
to those things
which aren’t seen now.

Amazing Grace

Earlier this week, I received an invitation to attend the Mormon Tabernacle Choir's Patriotic Celebration (not only a patriotic program, but an impressive nod to the Choir's spectacular 100 year recording history) with some lovely friends.  Admittedly, I'm a fan of the MoTab.  They're massive in number.  They're an incredibly fine-tuned ensemble.  They're fabulous and they make honest music with deeply felt convictions.  I love!

I quite enjoyed the beginning numbers, humming along with "It's a Grand Night for Singing" and "Seventy-Six Trombones" and standing up with everybody else in the LDS Conference Center after the Choir's signature rousing rendition of "The Battle Hymn of the Republic."  I was pleased and informed by the well-crafted audio-visual presentation sandwiched in between musical numbers, chronicling MoTab's history as an ensemble always at the cutting edge of new recording technology.  And yes, I did, in fact, tickle the elbows and knees (my way of expressing--in as least an audible, yet still as Nic-ly a way as possible--my sheer glee at the quality of the music) of the friends sitting on either side of my seat.

I was not, however, ready for the profound emotional and spiritual shift I would experience during this Mack Wilberg arrangement of "Amazing Grace."



It's a beautiful hymn on its own, but Wilberg's treatment of the musical material is stunning.  I sat, my soul in my ear, analyzing Wilberg's supreme use of suspensions and lingering non-harmonic tones, his exceptional use of harmonic and orchestral color and, most especially, the way he employs the same notes in the bass (also known as a pedal tone) throughout all three verses--

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.

The Lord has promised good to me.
His word my hope secures.
He will my shield and portion be,
As long as life endures.

Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease,
I shall possess within the veil,
A life of joy and peace.

When we've been here ten thousand years
Bright shining as the sun.
We've no less days to sing God's praise
Than when we've first begun.

He repeats the refrain "We've no less days to sing God's praise/ Than when we've first begun" and this is the only occasion in the entire setting of the hymn that the bass notes actually change.  It's an incredible way to inspire reflection in the listener, taking them by reverent surprise, as it were, with this shift from a major key to a minor one (happens at 5:17).  We, as listeners, don't realize how steady this bass note has been--grounding us in consistent and comfortable harmonies--until it gets somehow shifted. 

I took the moment to muse a bit about that pedal tone.  I thought, It's kind of a symbol of God's presence in our lives.  We don't always notice He's there; a  situation changes and our sense of life's harmony is abruptly challenged and we want, like all musical resolution, to find our tonic resolution.  Get back to Home.

Then I started thinking about that choir.  Over three hundred voices uniting to create one, perfect lovely sound, "to sing God's praise," or, as I've always mistakenly heard it "to see God's face."  Kind of whoa.

Then I imagined all the voices of all people, rising with whatever sort of energy sparks a prayer to God's ears.  What a choir that must be.  To me, it would be overwhelming cacaphony, because I don't know how to listen to that, but God does.  I think He hears us like we hear music.

Then I wondered if I were a consonant or dissonant "sound" to Him.  I began to worry about the worth of my voice in God's ear.  It's an old worry.  If I'm honest, it's a current worry, too:  I've allowed myself (out of some personal necessity) to become careless in my concern with regard to active participation of my faith.  I thought, I realize, according to the ecclesiastic regulation of things as they are in the church, I'm not "worthy;" but does that really mean I'm not of worth to God?

I listened to the sublime resolution Wilberg creates in the end of his arrangement of "Amazing Grace," but I didn't feel any sort of similar consonance in my mind or heart.  I spent the next numbers chewing on that question regarding my value in God's eye.  Weighing my worth inside my mind, I didn't listen to much of President Monson's remarks.

The choir closed with one of Mormondom's (and one of my own) most cherished hymns, "Come, Come Ye Saints."



I have never heard more comforting words than tonight's "All is well."  It was almost as if God was telling me not to worry too much.  He still loves me.  He's proud of my successes and is always there, the pedal tone keeping steady under everything else.

"Don't fret, Nic:  All is well."  What a bit of amazing grace.

Homesick for Heaven

I was explaining to a friend the other day what I mean when I talk about being homesick for heaven.  It's something I have a difficult time explaining, but here was my at-one-a.m-in-the-morning attempt.

"I've always had the desire to believe that life is more than what exists on a physical plane, and so I'm always searching for those kinds of richly felt experiences in which I sense feelings that are bigger than my body--things that remind me to look and see and explore and feel and expand. Does that make sense? Some people call it connectedness or one-ness; others call it the Spirit or divine kinship; I don't know what to call it, other than it always feels like I'm heavy and light and like flying and dancing with all of the molecules in and around me. So--as you so brilliantly stated--I, too, "have a tendency to want to keep all doors open, all options tentative, as long as possible, and as a result, I keep exploring, always wanting to see a new place, share new experiences with people I care about, maintain distant friendships, explore viable ideas..." I think I do those kinds of things to remind myself of what I want to be when I'm my most complete, best self. Rachmaninov gives me that kind of divine confidence every time, whether I'm playing or listening.

"Homesick for heaven, I guess, is wanting to be in the place where all is as it should be (the best "home") and where you feel fully your SELF and realizing that probably won't happen for a long time but not giving up on finding it."

Here are a few things (among so many others) that make me feel like I'm close to Home:

Being with my Tria mates

an empty performance space, pregnant with artisty and history
















first day in Hawaii (January 2010)

Chocolate Truffles

Hangin' with my buddies
















Searching for and writing in beautifully hand-crafted journals

The Wellsville Mountains

And of course, my family, music, poetry, art and all good things in life.

I'm reminded of one of my favorite works by e. e. cummings

i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
wich is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth
day of life and love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any-lifted from the no
of all nothing-human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

Thank heaven for those things sent to earth to remind us we are not "human[s] merely being", but that we are sublimely, ultimately divine.

Babadjanian Poem

This piece, performed by the amazing Jie Chen, is what I'm currently trying to memorize.



One of the scariest things I've ever taken upon myself.

The Bookend Brothers Bond Over Those Fabulous Beekman Boys

OR HOW ANIMAL HUSBANDRY GOT ITS GAY ON

Just a few days ago, Gavin and I were lounging on the sofas in front of the flat screen downstairs. Having wrestled the remote from him after suggesting he was in dire need of a hot shower (he smelled like the dairy farm where he works), I flipped through the channels, trying to find an episode of Dr. Who or something else of equal "interesting" or "intellectually expansive" factors. It was a Saturday afternoon and not much was garnering my attention. I passed over the SciFi and Spike channels and began the fascinating journey through The Discovery Channel, The Learning Channel and --that sometimes frightening place on the wavelength which reminds me why I'm glad I grew up human -- Animal Planet.

Nothing was catching my eye, and I was about ready to give the remote back to Gav; however, as we passed through more nature documentaries than Jane Goodall could dream of, I saw it as I almost skimmed over Planet Green -- one of those words that enraptures all gays -- that divine and flashy adjective: FABULOUS!!!

Gavin groaned, "Mom and I saw a commercial about this. It's some new show about gay farmers."

I grinned.  "Let's see what this about," I teased as I put the remote down and settled into a pile of embroidered pillows.

Gavin rolled his eyes, but then he got comfortable, too. I think he was, perhaps, intrigued by the premise of a couple of queers prancing about a gorgeous farm and, although he'll never admit this, I think (and I would have never imagined it) he's kind of started to like watching some of my shows with me.  What Not to Wear.  Chelsea Lately.  Glee.  He always, always, always pulls up an armchair when I'm watching those McKinley High kids overexert their ice-pack-me-right-after-this-take-is-finished vocal chords on Hulu.  I've even found Rachel Berry and Finn Hudson's Journey duet (among others) on iTunes.  I haven't bought any of the albums.

So.  Anyway.  We're watching and the gents are introducing themselves.  Brent's the former VP of Martha Stewart's something and Josh used to be a drag-queen.  This could get a little uncomfortable for Gav, I thought.  Maybe I really should find something else to watch.  And then, the moment for which no one would have been prepared:  we meet Farmer Jo, a bald, hefty, rural upstate New Yorker.  He has been hired on as the gentlemen farmers' goatkeeper.  He's talking about how if it weren't for Brent and Josh and the Beekman farm, he'd have lost the goats and how much he loves his animals and he starts crying!!!  I looked over at Gavin.  He looked at me.  We burst out laughing and watched the next three episodes of The Fabulous Beekman Boys, giggling together for another 90 minutes.   



The New York Times may not agree, but I kind of know that shows are brilliant when Gavin and I -- from two completely different molds -- can bond over watching them.  The fact that Gavin, in his muck boots and manure suit, and I, in my skinny jeans and hair paste, can sit and see facets of ourselves and each other in this stupid reality television show; the fact that we can giggle about how we do or don't fit into the stereotypes of cowboy or farmer or sensitive or gay man; or the fact that we can discuss our experience with having used or being the target of derogations like redneck and fag after watching this particular TV show is really incredible.

Who knew the gays and the rural backwater boys could enjoy the same thing so much?

Reading Old Facebook Notes

From Jan 27: "25 Random Things"

1 - I abhor these kinds of excercizes, as they always leave me contemplating the mysteries of my Self. Some little idiosyncracy gets glaringly revealed, and then I have to grapple with that, in public.

2 - Poetry is feeling a tenderness toward this existence named life, and having to write it out to understand why it is.

3 - The older I become, the more I realize that family is the only thing that really matters. Being in a family provides one with lessons in love, forgiveness and humor. I'm grateful for mine.

4 - I also believe that my friends are the best people I know. They are the good people who provide me the high mark against which I measure myself. Thank you.

5 - I am not a kind person, but I'm honest. I won't give you praise for a mediocre performance that leaves me feeling unfulfilled; however, I will wait in line until the cows come home to let you know when your genius has inspired me.

6 - I like Emily Dickinson because we both have felt the need to hide; I adore e.e. cummings because we both laugh with all the energy we can muster; I revere Gerard Manley Hopkins because we both are in a beautiful struggle to understand the "WHY" of God.

7 - The best jokes are dirty. They're even funnier when someone in the room just doesn't get it.

8 - I want to wake up, some warm, lazy Sunday, and read Pablo Neruda's sonnets to the one I love as light cascades inside from the windows.

9 - If I ever have children, I will fingerpaint with them. We will search for spiders' webs and toadstools and all the secret things Nature keeps until you find them, and fill with wonder. I will teach them to love the freedom of their voices by letting them sing. And I will most definitely make them sit beside me, watching Cinderella, The Fox and the Hound, Finding Nemo, Wall-E and every movie starring Audrey Hepburn.

10 - I love the feeling of having mud caked on my body! My favorite YM/YW activites were on fall nights when we would soak a big field and play mud football. I absolutely relish how the squishiness between your toes and on your legs and under your shirt and in your hair becomes a crust you flake off in little pieces. Possibly, this is why I crave facials when I am at the beauty college.

11 - I think "Tickle My Fingers" is the most brilliant expression I have ever come up with.

12 - I say I'm afraid of rabbits (I am!), but I really fear other people. And being alone in a house at night. And trust.

13 - I really, really would like to gain 30 lbs. Really.

14 - When I feel morose, I bake. The Eccles boys really liked it when I was having a bad day.

15 - I hate carrying spare change because it jingles. I usually put any change I get from the cashier into the spare change jar. Don't ask me for pennies, because I don't keep them. But don't be surprised if I ask you for a couple.

16 - Indoor plumbing is miraculous, but public restrooms are banal.

17 - I absolutely delight in certain curse words. Sometime, when you're playing the Wii, and you think you get a brake from dancing with those damn rabbits, and the dancing keeps going, you must yell, "What?!? I can't quit? I've been moving like a bitch on crack!" That just tastes good.

18 - On the other hand, there are words I detest. Any time a person uses their words to degrade another, to dehumanize--this is evil.

19 - I may have forgotten what the Pythagorean theorem is, but at least I can spell Pythagorean!

20 - My soul longs for Tuscany. I will live there for two years when I have completed my doctoral degree, and then rent a summer villa every year thereafter.

21 - Looking at the stars reminds me of the way I felt as a little boy when Mom would make us waffles or pancakes in the morning: small, and wonderfully content.

22 - Post-it notes irritate me. Annotations do not.

23 - I grew up with poor grammar. Some things can be overcome.

24 - I don't enjoy texting -- I would rather speak with you on the phone, and I don't enjoy speaking on the phone, either.

25 - I'm finished!

All of it still rings true. :D

First Posts

I love finding new blogs of interest (or returning to my favorite old clicks), scrolling down the right side of the screen, perusing the blog archives and post titles as I search for the very first post of the blog I'm currently reading.  It's so fun for me to see the reason, the motivation, the seed which flowered and became your blog.  Blogs aren't ever completed works and it's so fascinating to read the progressive snippets of writers' lives, to speculate about why you chose to write about this post or upload this photo, to guess at the before and the after of the events you share.  I heartily enjoy comparing whatever post I'm reading to your initial post, trying to decide how or if this post fits into the picture of what you wrote your blog might be.  I love reading your blogs--so much!

So, today I went back and read my first post, trying to decide if I've kept on track with what I thought my blog would become.  I'm not sure that I quite knew what I was going to write about  when I wrote it.  I had an inchoate idea that I'd be writing big thoughts about poetry and philosophy and music and literature and how these things help me understand and love and accept divinity in my life--that my blog would be my shrine to the arts and why they are so needed in making the lives of any human being more related to the sacred, maybe.  It's not though; I think it's become a place where I describe small moments of revelation and beauty and love and anger and peace, times when I'm surprised by joy, those moments which unveil the confusion and beauty and clarity of this being that is me.

I look more sharply for those kinds of every day epiphanies than I did before deciding to keep a blog.  I don't write about them every day, but I do find them:  a funny joke lightening up a heavy rehearsal; a wobbly roan-colored foal nuzzling its mother on HWY 89; civiche at the Sonora Grill; watering the rosebushes in the front yard.  These moments are the petals on the flower of my life, those beautiful times where I'm unafraid to pick myself, to revel in the glee of living, to thank God for reminding me that small holinesses are, more often than not, so much more moving than excessive pageantries.

The Opposite of Resolve

I'm sitting, trying to balance my bones on this broken swivel chair, stymied by a debate playing out in my mind:  throbbing arguments pulsing the need to get up and practice countered by these lettered buttons beneath my lazy fingers.  Either way, a keyboard wins, right?

Chopin calls...

"If There's Love in a House..."

To steal a line from a great Tome Waits song “...It's a palace for sure.”

Every single member of my family was under the same roof for the past week. It's been lovely to have Mom and Dad, me, Matt and Claren and Jayden and Andi, Austin, and Gavin together. We haven't spent this long a time with each other for six years.

A lot has happened in that span of time:  I left to serve in PA. Matt went to Phoenix to study diesel mechanics. I came home and moved to Ogden. Austin left to serve in the Dominican Republic. Mom moved an entire cosmetology school twice. I was one half of a horribly dysfunctional, thankfully dissolved engagement. Matt and Claren got married.  Jayden arrived. Austin left. Gavin boycotted the public school system and started his stint with home-schooling and then boycotted home-schooling and went back to public school.   I moved home.  Andi was born.  I moved back to Ogden. Gavin overturned his Jeep. Austin came home (a week ago!). Dad has been constant and sure the entire time and Mom has enjoyed most of the ride.

I was reminded of how much I love my family. This photo is probably the best representation of all the happy feelings I've felt in their company this week.  It has been as pure a joy for me as riding my shoulders was for my niece.

I thank God for my family and that there is love in our house, this palace: our home.

Young Women Lessons, or How I Bawled Out a Bunch of Pre-Teens

Sam and I decided we'd go to an improv show a few Friday nights ago. It was going to be the show's 6th or 7th anniversary show, so we thought we'd better get there early to save a spot in the line. We thought right. Excitement pulsed through the line as we anticipated the show. The line snaked through a large room and people started crowding into each other as the room in which we were standing filled with sweaty, excited people. We are not going to lose our place, I thought. "Sam," I said (loud enough for the people in front of, beside and behind us could hear) "make sure you stay right behind our neighbors." He looked around, his eyes widened and gave me a look that read You're crazy if you think we're going to be in the same place when they open the doors, but nodded his head.

People rushed the door as soon as the ticket office lights were lit, and all seemed lost. I watched as the young men ahead of us speed-walked toward the ticket line, their smokey-eyed dates in grip and dragging behind them. I pulled some cash out of my wallet as we maneuvered through the throng, readying myself to make the ticket transaction as efficiently and quickly as possible--I really wanted to get to a good seat. We maneuvered through the throng of people and pretty much maintained our spot in line. It'll be fine, I thought. We're still pretty close to the front of the line. There aren't too many people who've butted in front of us. We'll get good seats. And then, I looked to my right. A group of about six pre-teen girls meandered and shuffled next to us, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. I wasn't sure where they had come from, but I knew they weren't anywhere near us in the earlier line. I got a little bitchy.

"Hey! You girls!" I pointed in their direction and shouted, relishing how quickly their quick-texting fingers stopped all movement, their mouths gaping from shock as I bawled them out. "What? You think that just because you're shorter than most of us your mom can drive you here five minutes before the show and you can sneak in here and butt in line in front of us when we've been waiting for a half an hour? Or more?!? I did not see you there five minutes ago. Not cool, ladies."

I'm not sure what scared them more, the fact that I'd called them on their complete disregard of ticket-line etiquette, or that I was a 25-year-old man yelling in registers that were higher than their 12- to 13-year old voices. They didn't move, except to look at one girl (I'm assuming their queen bee: their alpha female: that girl in every group of junior high girlfriends who intimidates the others with her hair, her clothes or her newly budded boobs and thus has the power to command, coerce, and connive against the others) and silently ask, Shit. What do we do now? Twilight didn't prepare us for this!!! I smirked at them and turned back around to talk with a chuckling Sam.

"Oh, Nic," he laughed, "I think you scared those poor girls more than you intended."

"Good," I retorted, "Maybe they'll learn their lesson."

I turned around to see their huddling shoulders. They looked a little more than intimidated, and I started to feel a bit bad about my outburst. "Ok girls, so here's the life lesson to be gleaned from tonight's run-in with me." They looked at me, horrified at what else I might do or say at their pride's expense. "You never, never, never cut in line in front of a gay boy, ok? We will call you on it every time. We're just that way."

They only responded with a few slight nods of their heads. I looked down at their young, awkward little selves. The make-up was a bit too brightly applied; the hair was in need of a bit more coiffing and smoothing; the clothes were a study in badly matched cuts and colors. I felt sad for them, but I knew there was hope. "Oh, and when you grow up and go to college, you'll love the gays: We'll help you pick out great shoes and clothes; we'll discuss whether or not your new haircut is right for you; and we'll always talk with you about the stupid boy problems you'll run into. You'll see: we're indispensable, even if we do call you out when you cut in line."

Their eyes lit up at my mention of "boy problems". They all circled around their queen bee and started up a chorus. "Oh! Oh! She's having boy troubles right now." "Help her! Help her!" "Tell us what to do to get him back!"

We were next in line to buy tickets. I turned around, cash in hand, and left them to figure out their own solution for their broken-hearted alpha. Sorry girls, I thought. You're not gonna get that lesson until you learn you don't cut in line.

We were getting ready to cut the dog's hair and Sammy, my parents' Yorkshire terrier, went into hiding amidst piles of sorted laundry as I looked in the mudroom cupboard for the clippers my mother uses to trim his coat.

Mom was standing near the kitchen table, her five-month-old iPhone in her hand. "Your brother taught me how to use the iTunes last night," she said. "I have to show you the first song I bought." She was excited to show me the song she had purchased, Bucky Covington's song, "A Father's Love." I'd never heard of the singer, let alone the song, as I'm not much interested in listening to a wide array of country music. I was trying, unsuccessfully, to coax the dog into out of the laundry pile when the son started playing; I was in tears, dog in hand, by the second stanza.

He checked the air in my tires,
The belts and all the spark plug wires;
Said "When the hell's the last time you had this oil changed?"
And as I pulled out the drive he said, "Be sure and call your mom sometime."
And I didn't hear it then, but I hear it now:
He was saying "I love you" the only way he knew how.

I was hit by these lyrics because they describe exactly what my dad does for me every time I come home. He checks the air in my tires, opens the hood and putters around, and--word for word--asks, "When the hell's the last time you had this oil changed?" The song finished playing, I held Sammy in my lap, and Mom proceeded to share with me how she'd played the song for Dad the night before( which inspired about the same reaction in him as it did me); he asked afterward if he'd said "I love you" to his sons frequently enough when we were growing up.

I looked at a hangnail on my finger and smiled, as this brought to mind a rigorous and flaying conversation I'd had with an acquaintance concerned about my life choices about a month earlier. I said, "Well, I made sure to tell Sister So-and-So that Dad has always been very conscious about letting us know he loves us, that we've heard those words from him many times."

"What are you talking about?"

I wrestled with the anxious dog in my lap. "Oh, about a month ago she waited for me after an afternoon performance the trio gave. Said I was 'just the young man she wanted to visit with.' Corralled me into an unoccupied, 'more private' room for a discussion she wanted to have. Where she told me why being gay is the same as being 'sexually broken.' And said she could offer me help with selecting a Church-affiliated counselor and a reformative program. So I could be healed."

I wasn't sure if my mom would try to change the subject of if she'd agree with the other woman's opinion; I wasn't really certain of anything, as any mention of the word "gay" draws up tension for my mom and for me. The clippers buzzed on and Sammy whimpered. "You're kidding! I can say stuff like that to you, but no one else can! Who in the world does she--?" I was comforted by my mother's defending, angry response. "What else did she say?"

I maneuvered the dog so Mom could shear those hard-to-reach places and explained how Sister So-and-So informed me that same-gender attraction is not caused by genetics or biological functions, but that it is the result for boys who grow up without an involved father; who lack positive masculine role-models in their early lives; who seek out positive male-to-male touch in adult relationships because they don't feel completely male because their daddies didn't hug them enough when they were little boys.

I explained how I let Sister So-and-So know that my dad had never been shy about giving my brothers and me hugs; that he'd never been slack in saying, "I love you;" that both he and my mom have always been supportive of the activities in which their children participate. "Mom, I was very clear in telling her how great a father Dad was--how great a father he is. That I don't think it's Dad's fault--or your fault--that I'm gay." I laughed, "It really blew the wind out of her sails."

"That just makes me so mad," Mom spat. "What nerve!"

"I know, Mom. I was really upset about it, too," I agreed. Sammy kicked, "Be careful -- don't nick your dog!"

"Sorry, Sammy."

We kept talking as she finished up Sammy's haircut. It felt good for both of us. It had been a long time since that had happened.

I learned some things:

My parents are processing this. They may not like it, but they love me and they will defend me as they always have.

Sister So-and-So was acting out of love, even if she was sneaky and horribly misguided in the way she offered her opinions; however, Sister So-and-So was also ashamed that we were having the conversation. She waited around for everyone to leave before she said she wanted to speak with me. She looked for a quiet room, out of the way, where no one could find or interrupt us. She cowered and looked over her shoulder at every sound. "Did someone just walk by? Did anybody see us in here?"

My response to that kind of sneaky, secretive, shadow-filled "assistance" is this: I'm Mormon. I'm gay. I'm unashamed. If you want to talk about those dualities, let's have the discussion out in the open. No secrets. No shame. No judgment from you. No judgment from me.

And lastly, my parents' parenting of me did not direct or lead me to be attracted to other men. There is nothing we can blame "the gay" on. It just is. It's something I've felt since I can remember feeling, and it's something I'll feel for the rest of my life. No one should ever have to justify their feelings, or try to blame what they feel on anyone else.

I've become a man, confident and content as any, but I forget to change the oil in my car. I don't often press a gauge against the valve to see how much air is in the tire. Dad reminds me to do those things. It's just another way he keeps saying, "I love you." I'm happy he still does.

I Think of Cinderella’s Slippers On a Chilly Night While Paying for Gasoline

I hand the twenty
and a worn-out ten
to a tired man
who slumps behind the register.

He turns to watch

a stranger who laughs
and drops his case of beer
in the back seat,

who crows to the friends who stayed inside his

warm

red

car

how he told me
I walked
like I thought

I was

some kind of princess

when I passed him
near the neon yellow
Wellcome sign.

I imagine myself--a lanky Cinderella--
smiling at a charming prince,
prancing in that pair of brittle, glassy shoes.
They'd probably break with only one dance--probably become piercing
piles of swirling, starry daggers
and stain my toenails red.

The register slides on squeaky plastic rollers,
clicks closed.

A tired man

wearing sturdy boots,
I walk outside.

On an Ending I'm Not Sure I Like

"So what are your plans for the trio, now that Sam and Katie are graduating?" This -- always asked by elegant socialites with silver hair, expensive scarves and high-heeled shoes, their husbands trailing behind their heavily perfumed and circuitous paths, glasses of wine or hors d'oeuvres in hand -- has been the most frequently asked question Sam, Katie and I have encountered in the past whirlwind of university events, concerts and functions at which we've performed. I never really want to answer this particular question, as it's the question that causes me to tense as my little heart gets rent while I examine the truly honest answer: our Tria Fata is most likely coming to it's close.

The three of us have each said it at least once. Sam is probably most realist in this whole "end of an era," and I'm the one who's most doggedly hanging on to it, fantastically hoping the Tria won't end -- we were discussing the opportunity to play on a concert we really don't want to play and Sam said something like, "I want to end trio on a high note. The Beethoven is really the last big hurrah we've got." I wanted to hit him for saying it. But it's true. How can the Tria continue when we're at opposite ends of the country?

We've been playing so well, I keep thinking. How can we think of stopping now? Recently returned as finalists in the MTNA National Chamber music competition, we were invited to play before the amazing Amelia Piano Trio as part of a fundraising concert for the Cultural Affairs Department at our school. We've been center stage for scholarship events. We've been in the paper, on the web, in the community. We've got friends and supporters and (dare I say it?) fans in Northern UT. I feel like we're just on the verge and now we're just letting it go, even if we are letting it go for grad school.

I want to fight to keep Tria Fata alive.

I feel a bond with Sam and Katie that I haven't felt with any other human beings I've ever met. Making chamber music together has taught us how to read each other, how to empathize with and forgive and facilitate one another. We understand in each other the depth of things we can't discuss in words. Our breathing and our movement and our ears and fingers and feelings all sync up with each other when we play; it's only when I'm playing with Sam and Katie that I feel the most safe and the most invincible and the most in tune with that which is greater than myself. There is nothing else like it: the three of us becoming part of the divine by collectively making this thing called music.

I am afraid of what I will lose without my two pals. Musically speaking, they offer a safety net. They can cover for me when I'm technically weak. They offer two different sets of detail-specific ears; two foreign philosophies about how this or that should speak; two instruments of perfectly opposite construct and sound than my own. Their playing has changed my playing, and I hope my playing has instructed theirs, too. Personally speaking, they offer a liberating, risk-taking force (usually Sam) and a voice of conservative reason (normally Katie) in many of my personal desires, beliefs and actions. I trust them more than most, and often consider what both Sam and Katie have to say more heavily than words of advice from other friends and peers. They have become a very important part in how I have shaped my life within the past three years, and I guess I fear that I will lose a hefty part of me when they aren't near.

I've been content to see myself -- and let myself be seen -- as part of this group. The split of the trio frightens me because it will mean I will need to reconsider who I am -- as a student, as a pianist, as a human merely being -- when I am again totally on my own. I will be an individual again very soon. I feel unsettled when considering this.

"What happens to Tria Fata now?" Always, at every function, we field some variation on that question. My question would be this: "What happens to Sam now? What happens to Nic? What happens to Katie?" We are the Tria, but we each are more than the Tria and the Tria is more than any of one of us alone. I think we deal with that strange duality, that I am both this and that as we prepare to leave Tria by.

Each time that question is asked, at every event, I silently go through all of that stuff above, get anxious and uncertain, and look my Sam and my Katie both in the eye, searching for some reassurance that they're cut through by it, too. Then, one of us will take the breath, smile at whoever has made the query, and say, "Oh, you know, we're not really sure. It depends on where we end up..." while the other two stare in silence at the empty cups in our hands.

Response to a Sunday School Discussion, on Genesis 18 and 19

I sat in Sunday School for the first time in many months. We were reading about Abraham and Lot. I sat with my mother. I tensed when Sodom and Gomorrah were mentioned. The biblical account states that Sodom and Gomorrah were destroyed because of their wickedness. The teacher asked (what I deem a stupid question), "What are some examples of their wickedness?" Of course, homosexuality was brought up; it was spoken of with intense disgust, almost as if it were a plague, implying that those who are LGBT are sick and in need of pity, a cure, or fiery annihilation. All I could think of were these lines from Shakespeare's "The Merchant of Venice", my own way of affirming "I AM NOT A PLAGUE! I am the same as you"--

He hath disgraced me, and
hindered me half a million; laughed at my losses,
mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my
bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine
enemies; and what's his reason? I am a Jew. Hath
not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs,
dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with
the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject
to the same diseases, healed by the same means,
warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as
a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed?
if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison
us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not
revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will
resemble you in that.

Let's not use ancient, stolid Bible stories to demonize those who we feel are different from us and then justify our actions against them.

The Sunday School lesson we should remember most? Look and you will see that we are the same: all are christened children of God, made of the same materials, housing the same biological patterns, and full of the power with which God has gifted us.

Eve's Real Curse, or Why Yes! Every Girl Should Have a Gay Boy, Part II

We still giggle about that dinner, but there are times I regret we ever taught Julyn how to spot a gay. You see, she's in the theater department at a Church-sponsored school, and -- being lovely, witty, kind, sensitive, "pleasantly plump" (can I say that, Jules?), accepting and delightful young Mormon woman she is -- she's the perfect go-to for those cute Mormon theater boys who just don't want to admit they like other cute Mormon boys; those cute Mormon boys who ask lovely, witty kind, senstive, "pleasantly plump", accepting and delightful young Mormon women out on dates; those cute Mormon boys who lead those cute Mormon girls into quasi-relationships, and then call an abrupt halt without immediate explanation; those cute Mormon boys who often eventually come out as gay to those cute Mormon girls. I admit, I was one of those cute Mormon boys, and I hated myself for it.

Perhaps that's why I feel a guilty pricking in my hard heart when Jules tells Corey and Jess and I about the boys she meets during shows and in class and then asks, with both hope and doubt in the possibitly of R-E-L-A-T-I-O-N-S-H-I-P, "Do you think he's gay? He probably is. He's got most of the signs." I feel that dagger, too, when Jules reminds Corey and I that we promised we'd tell her if we ever thought any boyfriend of hers was attracted to other men. We've opened her eyes, I guess, but I don't know if that's been a good thing. She weighs her dating prospects with a much more searching scale. Perhaps we've made it difficult for any man to pass the "Is he? Isn't he?" test. The things we told her have taught her to feel like her options of marriage-able men are even more slim. I think that thought sometimes causes her great anxiety.

Traditional Christianity teaches that the curse of Eve is pain in childbirth. I sometimes joke that the Eve's real curse was Steve, the other man in the Garden. The one who joined Eve during the big shoe sales at Gabriel's, and who listened to Eve talk about her feelings over a molten lava cake, who kept his hair well-coiffed, whose biceps looked like stone, and whose high-pitched snicker could be heard all over creation. Steve, who who baffled and intrigued and frightened Adam. The joke usually gets a big laugh, but I don't think it's so funny anymore. In fact, it makes me angry. I don't tell it much anymore.

The whole reason there is any sort of "curse" is because, as gay boys in the LDS church, we've cursed ourselves, buying into the idea that we can, or that we should, or that we will someday be cured of homosexual "tendencies" by attempting romantic relationships with our naive young sisters. We are committing a crime in lying to ourselves and to the women we fool, boys, when we think we can date and marry our "guilty question" away. That sort of self-hating dishonesty is the real sin God condemns.

I am eternally grateful that I didn't fool Jules (or myself) any more than I did when we were in high school and in between our missions. I am so happy that our friendship remains, because I know I've burned bridges with other dear girl-friends. I almost believe that the fact that I never pursued any real sort of committed relationship with Jules is because she is the young woman I love best and would keep from harm most. I hope I'm no curse to her, because she has been an incredible blessing to me.

With love to you, Jules. *HEAD-HUG!!!*

Tria Fata Performs Arvo Part's "Mozart-Adagio"

From a performance at Weber State University, Feb 18, 2010

Eve's Real Curse, or Why Yes! Every Girl Should Have a Gay Boy, Part I

Julyn has been my best girlfriend since the summer of ninth grade.  We have quite a bit of history, as best friends should.  She crushed on me in high school, and I also felt a deeply mutual affinity and affection for her (secret: I still do).  She's been the singular young woman to drop my jaw (with a shocking authenticity) by just entering a room (picture: Nic standing in the kitchen before a prom, corsage in hand, stopped mid-sentence by this gorgeous girl in pink, capped-sleeve and beaded-bodice wonder).  We've held each other in times of deep loss and effervescing joy.  She's been a constant woman in my life.  And I've been her best gay boy all along, even if neither of us were honest about it until about eighteen months ago.

The week I came out to Julyn was not a good one for her.  Another good friend of ours and her sister also had similar discussions with her.  She had just started a new job and it seems like midterms were coming up.  Three gays in two days is a lot to take in: Jules lost the job and failed a few tests.  I felt awful, but being the miracle she is, Jules got over the news, and things have been great ever since.

Except for this one time, when Corey and I did a (maybe) bad thing.  Corey, Jules and I drove to Provo to visit another of our best friends, Jessame, who was attending BYU's law school at the time.  We met Jessame at her apartment and then headed out for what Corey call's "a twenty-something's idea of a fancy dinner" at PF Chang's.  After we'd been seated, conversation took a turn to what Julyn thought would be the difficulty of finding other gay men to date in UT.  I spotted a cute waiter--tall, with dark hair and features--and flirted a little bit, getting a prompt, yet furtive glance back.

"How did you do that?!" Jules exclaimed, waving her arms, almost pushing Jessame out of the booth.

Corey and I proceeded to give Julyn the lesson in "How to Spot a Gay." I will now defer to a post of Corey's, listing a few of the things we shared with Julyn that night.

1. "Is the facial hair nicely trimmed?
2. "Does the hair stick up in any way (ie. a faux hawk)?
3. "Are the shoes pointy or at least Italian-looking?
4. "Does he have cologne in his car? Hair products?
5. "Is his butt tucked as he walks?
6. "Are his clothes exceptionally well coordinated? (ie. Does his underwear match the rest of his outfit?)
7. "V-necks?
8. 
   
   "Is there a gym membership on his key chain? Or a rewards card to any of the following: a high-end clothing store, a shoe store, a book store?"

 Jessame thought our limp-wristed demonstrations were, simply put, absolutely fabulous.  Jules, on the other hand, was less than excited.  She was shocked.  Mortified. A little panicked.


Trying to make light of a somewhat serious realization, Jules half-joke, "You mean I'm gonna end up marrying some ugly, fat, gut-laden, fart-spewing hick?!"  The pain and shock and almost-humour on Julyn's face sent a little guilt my way.  Trying to backpedal as quickly as I could, I said, "Oh, Jules, darling! Just marry a man with sisters.  That way, he'll have all the benefits of style and gentility, and you can still be his type!"


That mollified her for a while, but only until she started to count up the (possibly) gay boys she kept close.